Yes, I Would
by chasingfireflies
Summary: It doesn't happen like in the movies. -Rachel/everyone, varying degrees.


_Disclaimer: do not have._

_I find parts of this rather iffy, but found it floating around on my hard-drive. There was once a sequel in the works, but I lost it. I am super smooth that way._

_This hints at triggery kind of topics, but it's nothing too full on. A little bit of Rachel/everyone at varying degrees, I guess._

* * *

><p>"<em>If I'd let you down when you needed me the most, I'd never forgive myself."<em>

**/-\**

As Will realises, it doesn't happen like in the movies.

There isn't a clear catalyst – no outstanding moment that allows anyone to get laid with the blame. No one follows the girl home to an unlocked house and finds her alone and splayed out on the bathroom floor. There isn't a note of explanation. It isn't followed with a public announcement. No one even really knows it's happened, other than the people who have to.

He just sits everyone down in Glee one day and says "Rachel won't be coming to school for a while."

It doesn't shock them or anything – not beyond the initial "_oh, we won't have to deal with her then_" and Puck's frown and his speculative "_but Rachel _never_ gets sick_" that no one else listens to – and no one really gives it much thought, because no one has really been giving the girl much thought since Christmas. Will Schuester just watches his students go about their conversations and their days like the words mean nothing, like there's no underlying meaning. The sombre tone of his voice either doesn't register or doesn't _matter_ to them, and maybe he understands why this has happened. Negligence, ignorance, hatred, _stupidity_. He let her down – he let them _all_ down. And then he feels sick to his stomach and disappointed and disgusted – with himself, with them – and he says he can't do this - _not today_ - and leaves.

This is all straight up on a Monday morning, and he tells Figgins to put him down for sick leave, and ignores Emma when she asks him to sit down and talk for a moment, and goes home to open a beer and waste himself away. Sue doesn't even antagonise him on his way out of the school. She doesn't call him a failure, or rub in the dirt to this gaping wound, or even make a jab at his hair, and even if that somewhat _sympathetic_ look on her face is more disorienting than effective, he's thankful. Because for a moment, it's like she understands.

And she does, he knows, because when school gets out for the day she turns up at his front door with a six pack and a frown. She doesn't console him, or point out where he's gone wrong – hell, she hardly speaks at all – and even though it's probable that they'll be back to normal in the morning – hating each other, spiteful, ruining each other's lives – he's thankful for _this_. And if he breaks down and sobs into his beer bottle for never noticing and never acting and _never doing a damned thing_, and she sits beside him in her tracksuit, lips pursed and with a bottle of her own and this dull shine to her eyes that hints at _tears_ and _guilt_ and _regret_, well, that's okay.

Because they don't get along, but neither of them have _really_ done their job, and at the end of the day they just both want to be better.

**/-\**

"_That's twelve people who love you for being exactly the way that you are. I know you're lonely but... you're not alone."_

**/-\**

Kurt knows.

He's the _first_ to know, the _only_ _one_. Rachel's _tall_ dad calls him as soon as it happens, because he met them a few months ago and he's been around a lot, and the two men like him, like who their daughter is around him. He doesn't speak to anyone about it – doesn't tell his father, or Blaine, or his _stupid_ step-brother who he just wants to beat the living shit out of every time he sees him, thinks of him, hears him speak. He doesn't tell them why he locks himself alone in his dorm room and doesn't leave or eat or speak for days, doesn't tell them why he spends the majority of the week hunched over the toilet bowl and emptying his stomach of things that haven't been put in there anyway, doesn't tell them anything because he doesn't leave his room.

He gets the call on Sunday morning, just after a breakfast that doesn't stay down long enough, and he's catatonic until Monday at noon. Then he just cries and throws up a lot, leaves the lights switched off and the curtains over the window, and he can't even _look_ at his closet. By Tuesday morning he has his pillow with him on the bathroom floor, and he doesn't leave the tile until Blaine picks the lock on Thursday, sick of unanswered knocks and ignored phone calls.

The boy takes him in, doesn't understand – but that's Blaine, and he doesn't need to. He just shucks his blazer and sits down beside him on the cool tile, pulling the other boy into him when Kurt is racked with another wave of tears. He doesn't know how he's making them anymore. He doesn't know how he has anything left in him to cry with.

Blaine doesn't ask him what's wrong - just holds him and waits until he wants to speak, and when he does he leaps back for the cistern again and starts dry heaving. It feels just as sickening to say out loud as it does to think of it, to know that no one else cares, or knows, because the only phone calls he's gotten this week are from the boy in the room with him. And he feels so terrible, so sick with himself and with everyone else, that he just wants to keep heaving, wash it all away. His hair is a mess and he's still in his pyjamas, and it coils in his gut like it has for days, making him sick and making him cry.

"Rachel tried to kill herself."

It's not like the movies, he realises. He doesn't visit her in the hospital straight away and make sure she's okay, and it lingers in his bones like ice – but he couldn't haul himself off the bathroom floor for the last few days and in hindsight he'll realise it's excusable. But he wasn't her knight in shining armour. Being her friend didn't stop this from happening. And it's _this_ - this feeling that he didn't do enough, wasn't _good_ enough – that eats him up. It isn't how he acted _before_ they were friends that he analyses in the dark, in his room, before Blaine. It isn't the scathing comments he _used_ to throw her way that echo in his head and the back of his throat and have him heaving into the toilet bowl. It's the inadequacy. It's the thought that he should have done more, _been_ more. That Rachel was so lonely, and he never even saw it. He should have noticed, have stopped this – it was preventable; he should have done something, anything, _everything_.

And he tells Blaine, who just holds him closer while he cries and tells him "you aren't superhuman, Kurt. You couldn't have known. It's not your fault. It's _not_," and promises that it will be better, even though Kurt only thinks it's not, it never is, it will never _be_ alright, he will never be good enough.

He didn't stop this from happening, and he wishes he was a better person. He wishes he was a better friend.

**/-\**

"_I just think you just want it too much. Which is something I can relate to – I want everything too much."_

**/-\**

Puck breaks Azimio's nose on Wednesday.

The guy mentions Glee and argyle and something about a rainbow flag that just strikes him up the wrong way at the time, but he doesn't remember it afterwards. Not the words, anyway – just anger, and possessiveness, and hatred, and this misery that tore into his chest like ice and claws and gutted him from the inside out. He remembers wanting to hurt – hurt Azimio, and hurt himself – and punch and maim and injure, and wanting it _so badly_. And then he remembers the feeling of his fists on the other boy's face, the stocky form stuck below his knee while he hit _again and again and again_ until his bones ached and his skin hurt. He remembers the crunch of cartilage and bone beneath his hands, and then blood – but he doesn't know if that was his victim's or if he'd just bloodied his own knuckles in his fury.

He remembers his arm aching and his fingers going numb and tears streaking down his face, but that he kept on beating the boy until Coach Beiste pulled him away. And somewhere in the recesses of his brain he remembers that vague image of tearing against her grasp, trying to get back to that body on the ground that said something that hurt, because it wasn't even Azimio anymore – it was everyone who had ever said anything like that _ever_. It was _him_.

And he remembers Beiste scalding him – acidic, speaking of suspension and bullying and how he was a stereotype, a Neanderthal – and he remembers not defending himself, and crying against the lockers in the hall, and not caring.

"You know, don't you."

It's not a question, because Sue Sylvester doesn't ask questions, and Puck doesn't bother answering. Beiste is yelling at the dwindling crowd, and they're scurrying away in fear even though Noah Puckerman is still slumped against the lockers at the side of the hallway, awaiting a punishment he probably won't listen to and crying with his hands gripping the side of his head, wishing it would all go away. Beiste turns back around before he can say anything – assuming he _would_ say anything, which he probably wouldn't – and marches over with a stiff expression and anger and disappointment. He understands – he _does_ – he's one of _her_ players, and his behaviour reflects on her, and that was reprehensible, atrocious.

But _she_ doesn't understand.

"Puckerman! What was th-"

"You'll do best to shut your mouth, Sharon," Sue cuts in simply, stiffly, with no room for argument and earning a scathing glare for the interruption. Puck just puts his head back down, tears rolling down his face and gritting his teeth, silent and ignoring them.

"My player, _my_ responsibility, Sue. And he needs to be punished for his behaviour, so-"

"And in any other case I would agree with you," Sue continues gruffly, and Puck never thought he'd see the day that Sue Sylvester became his saving grace. "In fact, I'd recommend a flogging with the good ol' nine tails – they had punishment down to an art form back in those days. _Just_ the right combination of pain and public humiliation." Classic Sylvester. "But not this. Puckerman's actions today are _justified_."

"That behaviour is _never_ justified."

"Maybe not, but I can certainly try. And Figgins knows what's going on – at most, Noah here will get two or three days suspension – _if_ it's necessary," she says, gesturing to the normally stocky boy who looks like he's caved in on himself in his spot on the ground. Sue seems at war with herself when her lip curls up – not that he can see, because he's not looking, because he doesn't care. And it's because she knows how he's feeling, kind of – not entirely, they're all different – but she has this natural inclination to despise public weakness. She ignores it. "Schuester can't even get himself to school for the same reason."

"Will? What's this got to do with –" Sharon Beiste cuts herself off for a second, staring at her rival beside her as the comprehension sets in, and Puck just wants them to _go away_. They can suspend him, expel him – hit him with the bloody nine tails if that's what they so please – he doesn't _care_, he just wants them to _go_. He wants to cry, and sob, and hit things, and go home and pretend it never happened – pretend he never met Rachel Berry and never cared about her. "Oh."

And then Beiste steps away with a nod and some heavy understanding, because the _whole_ staff might not know about this week's drama, but she does. She can't let Puck off scot free – he beat the other boy within an inch of his life, for god's sake - but she can give him a little leeway.

"I'll talk to Figgins about it," she says after a moment. Sue just nods her off, watching the large woman until she's reached the end of the empty hall and disappeared out of it before she turns back to the footballer huddled at her feet. With a sigh and a resignation to once again work her neglected humanity, Sue Sylvester lowers herself to the ranks of high school students and hobos, and moves to sit down on the floor.

"How did you find out?" she asks, which seems like a strange question to ask considering this is an attempted suicide in Lima, Ohio, and the details should be all over the school by now. They're not, she knows, because no one knows. No one asked. No one cared enough. And she loathes the softness in her voice (almost as much as she loathes the human race for cases such as this), because she contains it for her sister and wastes it on no other living being. Puckerman should be damned thankful.

"I went to her house," he tells her, and his throat is choking up because he remembers that too – fingers pressing a familiar doorbell, DVD lodged under his arm. He'd been here dozens of times – she was his friend, his Jew, his home girl. She never missed school – must have been deathly sick, would have wanted company – he wanted to check up on her, make sure she was okay. She'd be going insane inside, antsy about missing schoolwork and messing up schedules. She would want to know all about Glee, and how Schuester had walked out the day before looking like he was about to vomit, and how he hadn't come to work today – and _hey_, maybe they both had the same bug.

But then her _tall_ father answered the door – the intimidating one that Puck got along with the best, because the dude liked sports and was super cool, and made the _best_ breakfast burritos.

Puck remembers red-ringed eyes, and this dull expression, and lingering tears. Reproach – his or Mister Berry's, Puck's not sure – and a roaring in his ears, eyes widening, '_no no no no __**no**__'_, and '_something's wrong_' and nothing being _right_. Mentions of a hospital – harsh, something about cuts while something like ice creeps down his spine – the clatter of the DVD to the ground, wanting to faint, to throw up, to run.

And _not_ running. Standing there until the man in front of him started tearing up again, and then him sobbing too, and tears blurring his vision, and a chain being pushed into his hand.

He grips the Star of David around his neck now, because it's not his and he remembers Mister Berry alone in his house, his husband tied in a conference halfway across the country and his daughter tied to a gurney halfway across the town. _"She'll hurt herself again," _he remembers being told_. "Tied her down. She was so pale, and I – the bathroom's still red. I can't go in there. I came home early, wasn't supposed to be home, but my girl – my baby, my daughter – what _happened_ to her?" _

And he chokes out another sob and wishes he could _stop_ remembering. But then he focuses on breathing – in and out, _in_ and _out_ – because he can't get up if he doesn't inhale, and if he doesn't get up he'll never get to see her. He needs to – to give her chain back, so it doesn't weigh him down around his neck with that compulsive need to pray – for her, for her to be better, to trust him, to talk to him, to teach him to be like her. She's always been so strong, and _he_ needs to do it this time. He needs to remember, so that this won't happen again – because it can't, because he can't let it, because even though he doesn't know when or why or how it came to be, she's the best thing in his life sometimes and he doesn't know what he'll do without her.

"Coach Sylvester?" he asks thickly, and he can breathe now, kind of, even if all he wants to do is sleep and cry, and find his best friend and hold her, and take her hand and run away with her – away from here, and everybody who is a part of it, everyone who has ever hurt her, or driven her to this – even those parts of himself that used to do it too. He loves Rachel, he realises. Not like 'I _want you in my bed_' love, or '_let's make out_' love, either – honest, best friend, '_I would do anything for you to smile, happy, safe_' kind of love. "Is she going to be okay?"

Sue stares at the boy beside her. Commonly a Neanderthal – lumbering, insensitive, often smelling like too much axe, and god knows how many of her Cheerios he has somehow managed to _'charm'_ into his bed – and yet she has quite some pride about him. He might be a sleazebag sometimes – she _knows_ – and a jerk, and she knows he's thrown around slushies, but maybe Schuester's got a good thing in that ridiculous club of his, because _here_ is a jock with seemingly more intelligence than a brickl and an emotional range that _beats_ that of a dying goldfish, _and then some_. Here is someone who _cares_ about Rachel Berry. Maybe humanity isn't so despicable after all.

"Hard to say, Puckerman," she tells him stiffly. "From what I know? Her body's going to be fine. Her head? She's going to need a lot of support, kid. Dedication. Sensitivity. _Friends_."

Puck doesn't look at her, but he doesn't disappoint her, either. Something she says seems to reassure him, because he sniffs one last time and purses his lips and nods – just as much to himself as he does to her – and Sue counts herself victorious. He may be a jock and a sleaze, but something about Noah Puckerman says to her that he'll make a good friend – and if his bruised, bloody knuckles say anything he's a good _protector_, too. She nods to herself as well, standing up from her spot on the dirty floor and brushing her tracksuit off, taking on her 'challenge accepted' expression before she even muses to herself – if Noah Puckerman is going help a girl like Berry, then Sue Sylvester can cure McKinley high school of every harshness and nuance that she certainly helped to instil in it. She strolls off to Figgins's office, making a hundred plans in her head, with a proverbial skip in her step because today Sue Sylvester is out to do _good_ and Sue Sylvester will _always_ get the job done. Puck just stays on the floor for a while, because the rest of the school is in class and he doesn't want to move.

He remembers Rachel smiling at him a week ago, and then he feels sick, like he's already lost her, because he hasn't _seen_ her and it's like she _is_ dead. But he _wants_ her to be okay – so, _so_ much - and he'll do anything to make it so.

**/-\**

"_I don't hate you."_

**/-\**

Quinn doesn't comprehend it.

Puck is sitting out of his football practice, up on the bleachers after school like he used to when he'd watch her, in the days before Babygate and the days before Sam. He's been suspended from the team for wailing on Azimio on Wednesday – she _knows_ that. But she doesn't get why he's forcing himself to sit there and watch his team practice without him, because he certainly isn't looking at the Cheerios.

She doesn't think he's even actually watching the football team – indicative: the two Dalton uniforms sitting beside him. They're talking – hardly moving at all, Kurt with his arms wrapped tight around his own stomach, which is curious, and Blaine beside him with a hand on his shoulder, and Puck with his hands fisted tightly in front of him. She's surprised she can make them out this clearly over the distance, but that surprise takes backseat to her curiosity. Puck and Kurt have never really _spoken_, and she wants to know what they're talking about that is apparently so important.

If she didn't know Puck better she'd probably think they were helping him come to terms with his sexuality – they _are_ the dream team of freedom preachers, she's come to understand (possibly an understanding born from her own subconscious desires, not that she'll admit that). But she _does_ know Puck, and that boy is _flamingly_ heterosexual, so she doesn't even really entertain the option.

She wants to say hello to Kurt, but she's mid-practice and Sylvester will cut her limbs off and drop them in the Atlantic Ocean if she even considers flaking. She hopes the boy doesn't leave before practice is over.

"Got your eyes on Puckerman again, Q?" Santana grumbles beside her, and it's good-natured for _her_. "He's definitely a step up on your arm than your Ken doll boyfriend. Probably a better kisser, too."

Quinn doesn't deny that, because really, it's true, but being around Puck is unspeakably awkward half the time now, and they care for each other in this totally mutual spirit-bond kind of way that neither of them ever mention because it sounds weird. Also, Sam's kind of boring. And kind of unattractive, in a way. Probably because he lacks a few features she finds suddenly appealing. Features she just generally doesn't find in his gender, but pretends to, because that's almost as weird as her and Puck's spirit-bond thing.

Life is confusing at sixteen.

"Bring it in, you useless buffoons!" Sue calls, voice crackling over the megaphone before Quinn can give her friend a belated answer. She turns, walking beside Santana, out of breath while Brittany comes up on her other side, towards their stiff-looking coach. "I have an announcement! So get your scrawny, empty bodies over here now! _Cheerios assemble_!"

"She makes it sound like a fucking comic book or something," Santana grumbles, just out of hearing range. "We're like the freaking Avengers."

Quinn doesn't bother to mention that if anyone in their school was to be a superhero, it wouldn't be a single one of them. Maybe Mercedes, who had the decency to house her in her time of need, or Artie, who went out of his way to keep Brittany's Christmas spirit alive, or Rachel Berry, who never cried after a slushy and soldiered past the insults and still helped out everyone around her – even the people that treated her like a personal punching bag. Helped Quinn, with soft lips pulled in a soft smile and her words and her voice, even though she never got a damned thing in return.

No, the Cheerios would never be super heroes. Villains, maybe. The kind of villains that hated themselves and took it out on others – on heroes like Mercedes, and Artie, and Rachel – but who always lost at the end of the day and never felt better.

"Now, I'm letting all of you hopeless saps know that the school's slushy machine? That's being taken out over the weekend," Sue barks at them all, and Quinn sees a lot of the squad exchanging glances. She frowns to herself. New, creative ways of bullying will be expected. This will require thought. "Now, I know what you're thinking – '_how will I keep myself on top if I can't soak the masses in corn-syrup and humiliation?_'. Then I've taught you well."

Quinn sees several of the girls nod, and Santana crosses her arms, eyes on their stoic coach, who stands in front of them and scowls.

"And I am _disgusted_ with myself."

This is the point of uproar, anarchy – the apocalypse must be coming upon them, hell freezing over, and hordes of demons rising from a split in the earth to drag them all to hell in terror and bloodshed and gore.

Instead, there is silence.

"There will be no more slushies within the walls of McKinley high – I don't care if you're drinking it, or throwing it," the coach tells them all, and Quinn goes stiff at the tone. She's heard Sue Sylvester mad before, and it was scary. This is different. _This_ is making her _bones_ shudder. "There will be no more insults, no more nicknames, no more shoving people around. If I hear _one_ _complaint_ about any single one of you harassing a student – _any_ student – for _any_ reason, I will _not_ kick you off of my squad. I will _not_ destroy your cheerleading career." There is a collective relief at the words – though Brittany doesn't seem to be paying any attention at all and Santana stands beside Quinn, as stoic as ever. They exchange a glance, because they know better. This is Sue Sylvester, and more importantly, this is Sue Sylvester's _squad_. There _is_ no relief here. "I will destroy _you_."

And there it is, Quinn realises, exchanging a glance with Santana. There's the punishment. Sue can only do so much damage to someone with detentions, suspensions, expulsions. On the Cheerios, punishment is less humane. Keeping an offender on the squad ensures torture. And oh so obviously, Sue is serious.

"So listen up, you lumpy, disgusting degenerates – if attacking other students is so very important to you, you would do best to leave my squad _right now_."

No one speaks. No one raises their hand. No one protests. Leaving the squad to bully is pointless. Once you're off the squad you mean nothing. Staying on gives status. Status is grand and amazing and achievable, and it puts you above everyone else. Status makes you _great_. Status _stunts_ self-loathing.

Or it's _supposed_ to. From the number of times she's seen Rachel Berry cringe, Quinn knows status does _shit all._

"Good," Sue tells them all, and the word curls off her tongue, sharp and cutting. And Quinn can see it – Sue wasn't lying, she _hates_ how they've acted. She hates that she had anything to do with it, and Quinn knows the feeling. "From now on, McKinley high school has a _zero-tolerance_ bullying policy. I will be enforcing it myself. By the time I'm through, these halls will be sparkling, students will be _happy_, and all of _you_ will be halfway-decent human beings! Company dismissed!"

She thunders it, with all the authority and poise of a drill sergeant, and the Cheerios bolt, except Quinn kind of just stands there and looks at her coach while Santana stays loyally – if cautiously – by her side, and Brittany stares idly at the sky.

"Are... are you okay, Coach?" she asks, forcing it out, because she's genuinely concerned – never thought she would be for Sue Sylvester, but hey, these things happen – if a little afraid of getting her head bitten off. And then she realises she's not going to get killed, because suddenly Sue deflates, and for once in her high school career, Quinn isn't facing '_I am a predator and I will eat you alive when you least expect it_' Sue Sylvester, she's just standing in front of a tired old woman who deals with shitty teenagers every day and finally realises the worst consequences of her actions.

"Ah, Q," Sue tells her lightly, and it's a little disconcerting hearing that exhaustion in her tough-as-nails coach's voice. It's comparable to hearing Finn say something sensitively intelligent. "_Q_. You were always my best – and my worst. I should feel bad about that – I _do_ feel bad about that. You and Lopez here. Encouraging that behaviour, what was I _thinking_?"

"...Coach?" Santana asks, and she seems a little put off by this whole thing, too. _Confused_. Santana is rarely confused. Quinn frowns.

"Girls, I need you to keep an eye on Puckerman for me," is all that the woman says to them.

"Puck?" Quinn asks, a little incredulous. Her first thought is that he's gotten into trouble – even though she believes that as his spirit-bond partner she should be privy to a higher insight than that – his fight probably had something to do with Coach's new attitude. Proactive coach is a strange coach. "Why? Is this about the fight on Wednesday? What did he do?"

"He didn't _do_ anything," Sue tells her head cheerleader – that should be a plural, really, because Santana is standing next to her and they seem to share the responsibilities now. "Call it a friendly concern."

"..._Friendly_," Santana says flatly, disbelieving, and it isn't meant to be harsh or mean or anything, she's just being thrown for a loop by the whole situation. So is Quinn. "Coach, _what is going on_?" And Quinn stares at the older woman alongside Santana with the same earnest expression, because this is turning into an almost out of body experience, and nothing is making sense. Sue purses her lips and stares at the two of them for a little while, not denying them answers but not giving them, either. Eventually, she seems to make up her mind, and she glances for a moment towards the three boys in the bleachers, ignoring the sounds of the football team in the background as they're called in, no doubt, for a similar speech.

"Rachel Berry attempted to commit suicide on Saturday night."

Santana goes stiff beside her, and Brittany looks down from the sky for the first time in fifteen minutes, a frown on her face as she tries to comprehend the situation. She'll cry later, and Santana will hold her and tell her it's all okay and stroke her hair in comfort, and Quinn will sit in her room halfway across town, wondering what drove that beautiful girl with the big voice, and the big dreams, and the _amazing_ legs, to any such action. She'll wish that she had nothing to do with it, just like she'll wish she actually _did_ hate the girl, just so she wouldn't feel like this. And then she'll cry herself to sleep – because she _doesn't_ hate Rachel Berry, and it's really quite the opposite – feeling broken and knowing it's only a fraction of the shattered feeling she's helped Rachel to achieve.

For now she just swallows thickly and drops her gaze from her coach, feeling like her knees are going to give out any second now. And when Sylvester leaves, and Brittany walks off in tears, and Santana follows her, they do. The grass is rough on her legs, and she just stays there, dropped and aching as the tears start falling.

And then Puck is there, pulling her up and into his arms, whispering "I know, _I know_," on repeat into her ear with this choke in his voice that says he does – he _knows_ - and Kurt takes her hand with a sad smile on his face, and tears in his eyes, and he looks thin and sick with Blaine standing stiffly beside him as a cornerstone.

She grips Puck's shirt tighter as she cries, because in this story the Cheerios _are_ the villains - and this time they've _beaten_ the hero.

**/-\**

"_I'll always be honest with you. All I ask in return is that you're just honest with me."_

**/-\**

Finn, not for the first time in his life, lacks proper understanding.

He sees Kurt over on the bleachers, his Dalton friend at his side and his gaze aimed not to the fields, but to Puck. There's the initial confusion – _what is he doing here? Was he even coming home this weekend? Why is Blaine with him?_ – followed by the secondary – _why is he talking to __**Puck**__?_ And he puzzles over it, because he doesn't remember Burt mentioning Kurt at all this week except for a phone call yesterday and something about the boy not attending classes – there was punishment planned for that, but Kurt looks sick so maybe there was a reason.

Coach Beiste calls them all in from their practice – starts yelling to them all about the slushy machine and hitting people and nicknames – and he ignores her and stares over at the three boys on the bleachers. He wonders why they all seem to jump to their feet and bolt, but then he sees Quinn – she's collapsed to her knees, hand over her mouth – and he understands, kind of. He gets their reaction. He doesn't get why Quinn's on the ground, though, or why Kurt looks sallow and thin, or why Puck looks like he's crying (dude's the resident badass, he _never_ cries). So he nudges Sam beside him and gestures to their congregation in the middle of the field as Puck picks the girl up off the ground and puts her on her feet, and pulls her in to hold her, and cries.

Puck's a harsh topic for the blonde boy, Finn knows. Puck doesn't moon after Quinn or anything, but they have this really deep understanding of one another that Finn doesn't comprehend, and Sam doesn't either, and that thing the two of them have is always intimidating to Sam (Finn knows, he learns these things in their ice bath conversations). Neither Finn nor Sam really understand that the '_we had a baby together_' bond-thing that Puck and Quinn never mention, but do possess, isn't really threatening. Because they've been through everything and romance just isn't an option anymore – and it never will be.

"Why is she crying?" Sam asks dully, and Finn shrugs, blank-eyed.

"Dunno."

One word answers are relief in Finn's mind – people know that after however many years of schooling, he doesn't know that much and he's not smart. But he is popular, and totally awesome, and people love him because of that, right? Really, it's just on principle. Rachel got that, before they broke up (although she'd slighted that with her 'playing hard to get' scheme last week, but he had a feeling he'd dealt with that well enough, and she'd come crawling back to her place before long) – he was the totally awesome footballer that liked to sing and stuff. But, like, football would always come first, because football was cool, and Finn had to be cool. It was practically a birthright.

Sam knows now, that his girlfriend is crying and Puck is comforting her, and so Finn doesn't have to think about it anymore. And sure, he's still thinking about his sick-looking step-brother who's crying and holding the cheerleader's hand, but that's not enough to overload his one-track mind.

He wanders over when Beiste stops talking – figures that practice is done, and Mike can tell him all about it later – with Sam on his heels like the dynamic footballer due that he and Puck used to be.

Only not, because Puck never talked about... well... _feelings_, and Sam kind of did.

"What's going on?" Sam asks simply when they reach the four out on the grass. Puck doesn't let go of Quinn like she's burned him or anything – doesn't let go at all – and Sam tenses a bit at the fact. He doesn't get a reply for a few moments – Quinn keeps shuddering against Puck's chest, fingers twisted into the material of his jacket until Kurt pulls her away, and she moves into the same position on him, quiet sobs of "my fault, it's my fault" muffled against his blazer. Blaine stands silently beside them – dutiful, watchful. And Puck, released from Quinn's grasp, rubs the tears from his eyes and sniffs _once_, but not again.

"I – uh – I'm gonna go see her tomorrow," Puck says, and he doesn't look at Sam or Finn, just at Kurt and the back of Quinn's head. "Apologise for not showing sooner. I just – I didn't want to be a _wreck_ for her, y'know?"

Kurt nods a little brusquely. "My many days camping on the bathroom floor can attest to that. I may see you there." Puck swallows and nods back, and cracks his knuckles while he sniffs again, stretching his neck out.

"My mom's taking my sister to my aunt's tonight," Puck says after a few minutes. "They won't be home. I'm gonna hustle up some Johnny Walker and some beer and some sad songs. Private party, if you're interested."

"I'll be there," is Kurt's simple reply, and Blaine nods his compliance when the boy looks to him. As it seems, the darker haired boy goes wherever Kurt goes, and Finn wonders if it's because they're friends, or because they're together, or because Kurt looks _really_ sick – like, _deathly_ sick – and Blaine's just concerned about it. Quinn doesn't stop crying, just lifts her hand a little from Kurt's shoulder, fingers moving in a little way that seems to say '_I'm in, remember to bring the wine coolers_' and Sam stares at the back of her head, wide-eyed while Finn frowns at his lack of invitation.

"Dude, I'll totally put the call out. The whole team will be there," he says, figuring it out – clearly he and Puck are just such great friends that he doesn't _need_ to be invited. He's cool enough to just _automatically_ be invited. Perks of being popular, and he realises it a lot more now that he's not dating Rachel and she's not dragging him down – because now he gets invited to the parties, and Stacy on the Cheerios asked him out the other day.

But then Puck's eyes flash and he gets this bitter frown on his face, fists clenching, and Finn rethinks that.

"_Private_ party, Finn," Puck grumbles out, and Finn thinks that he only _just_ missed out on a derogatory nickname. But he and Puck are friends – Puck has his back – surely he wouldn't be mad with him. They haven't talked in a while, but they're still cool, right? "You're not invited."

Apparently not.

"Uh, do you want me to bring over anything?" Sam tries hesitantly – his assumption is probably based on the presence of his girlfriend, and so it shouldn't be as surprising as it is when it's his girlfriend's presence that fields the question. She finally releases Kurt, taking in a deep breath and wiping away her tears before she turns around.

"That mightn't be the best idea, Sam," she says slowly, and she can't look at him while she says it, either. The blonde boy just frowns – Finn understands, really, because it's common knowledge that the last time there was Quinn and Puck and alcohol, there next came a _baby_.

"Quinn-"

"No," she says, and she sounds strained, but she's not pleading. She is Quinn Fabray, and she _never_ pleads (except that one time where he was kicking chairs around and she was pregnant and scared and lonely, and maybe he should have handled that better, but who cared about _that_ anymore). "Just give me this. I need to think. And I – I need to know how she's doing –" and she looks at Puck, who nods this understanding even as she crosses her arms and folds in on herself a little, but Finn still doesn't know who this 'she' they're speaking of is, "-and then we'll talk about it on Monday."

"I – but – oh... okay," is Sam's reply, and Finn thinks it cool that he's not pushing it, but that's his girlfriend so he probably should. Because as his girlfriend, Sam should have some entitlement to her – to what she does and who she is, and – hey, he misses having that, having that control over someone while everyone on the team pokes fun, so maybe he should call Rachel.

He's contemplating the merits of such an idea when Kurt hands his car keys to Blaine and asks him to drive Quinn home because "Puck has a supply run, and I have to talk to my dad". Blaine walks away with his arm around the blonde cheerleader who seems caught between collapsing back into tears and projecting her strength. At the same time, Puck nods and turns away towards the parking lot without a proper farewell, and now Finn's a little pissed, because he thought they were cool.

"Geez. Why's he being such a-"

"Just shut the _fuck_ up, Finn!" Kurt cuts in, and he might look sick and weak but his tone is frankly _poisonous_. Finn almost takes a physical step back, because Kurt never sounds like this, never speaks in profanity, but here he is and he's directing it at Finn. "Sam, I apologise that you've been caught in this. Please rest assured that I'll have an eye on Quinn this evening, and nothing bad will happen. It's just – we've been – girl hits like a freaking _freight_ train, and it _hurts_, and we need time..." And he looks like he's going to cry again, and somehow Sam understand that this has little to do with him and he needs to just leave it alone.

Kurt doesn't cry though – Finn notes it as they're driving home, even though the time between Sam's casual unknowing acceptance on the field and him switching gears in the truck is kind of a blur. The boy is as elegant and stoic and strong as he's ever been, despite his more-wiry-than-normal stature and the dark circles around his eyes and the pale, sallow, sickly colour of his skin. And Finn wants to ask who 'she' is and what she's done, but he doesn't really want to talk over this strange tension that's suddenly between them.

"So what should I bring to the party tonight?" he manages eventually, forcing the lightness into his voice, because maybe if he pretends that there isn't this immaculate air of wrongness around them then it will be like there isn't. That technique always worked with Rachel, before she betrayed his trust with Puck. She should have known better than to hurt him like that – probably did now, and she'd come begging back to him because _she_ simply wasn't desirable and _he_ was brilliant.

"You're not coming."

"Rock Band – Puck likes Rock Band, and we can pick up some Doritos or something on the w-"

"I _said _you're not coming!" Kurt practically thunders, and he doesn't sound scandalised like he normally does. This isn't a joke to him – he's _pissed_ – and Finn's never dealt with him like this before. "You aren't coming, because you aren't invited, because you don't deserve to be there, because you don't _care_!"

He's a little hurt by these assumptions – they're brothers, and they're friends, and he does nice things for the people around him. He sang for Kurt at the wedding – and so what if that was _after_ all the drama went down, it was the thought that counted. And there was that time he went on a date with Rachel – which, seriously, that was charity in and of itself – so that she would join glee again and they could get to Nationals with him on lead and he could get a scholarship and be successful, and maybe then Quinn would love him more and he could look after her and the baby they wouldn't be keeping.

"Whatever it is, it's rude of you not to include me."

"Fuck you, Finn Hudson," Kurt practically spits as they pull up out the front of their house, and Finn swallows a little thickly at the disgust and the hatred and the resentment in the boy's voice. "Fuck you, you arrogant, inconsiderate, unintelligent _asshole_!"

And Finn blinks, hurt by those words as the other boy gets hastily out of the car and slams the door behind him. He stares until the black and red blazer is hidden behind the front door of the house, and it takes him a while to kick start again and leave the truck himself, locking the door behind him. He makes it inside, intending to drop off some of his things, stay for dinner, and then go out again, go to this party no one wants him at to spite them all – because how _dare_ they do that to him. So he stays hunched up in his room for a while, bouncing a tennis ball off the roof and wondering why Rachel won't pick up her phone. But when the sounds of talking die off from the living room – and really, he hopes Burt and his mom punished Kurt for missing school, because he was being such a _jerk_ before – and he eventually leaves his room for dinner, there's no trace of cooking going on in the kitchen. He frowns and makes his way into the living room, wanting to know why there isn't food on the table for him yet, because there always is.

He's met with a teary Kurt, held by his teary mother, and an astonished, miserable Burt who doesn't cry and doesn't look angry, but simply informs him that "you're not going out tonight, Finn. I'm sorry, but I can't let you. It's not your party".

Kurt leaves, though. He gets changed and goes out the door with a bare goodbye when Blaine pulls up and honks outside, and Burt goes to hustle up some take-out menus because Finn's figuring out his mom won't cook. She's crying too much, mentioning something about "calling them in the morning – they'll need some support – she's such a _bright_ girl, she _smiles_ so much, I never thought she would..." that Burt nods at in agreement, but Finn doesn't understand because he's sitting on the couch with his arms crossed like a petulant child. Burt sits down opposite him and his mom leaves the room – he's concerned, but it's not really his job to look after her anymore.

"I think we need to talk, son."

Burt says it with the same sombre tone in his voice that Mister Schue used at the start of the week when he mentioned Rachel, and it's only because it's Finn that the connection _isn't_ made. But then Burt keeps talking, and everything is starting to make sense, but in his head all he's thinking is 'god no, this is a joke or something, right?' Burt tells him everything three times, slowly, before it sinks in, and then leaves him to go look after Carole. Finn just sits and stares with wide eyes at the now-empty chair. He tries to convince himself that he had nothing to do with this – that going on the fly last week, screaming at her for the _nth_ time since they broke up, calling her names in spite and anger because she didn't seem to want him anymore didn't contribute to her pain. It was the rest of the school, he thinks – Karofsky, and the jocks, and Quinn, Santana, the Cheerios, the Glee kids, everyone that never stopped (who _he_ never stopped). But maybe if he's honest with himself he'll admit it's as much his fault as it is theirs.

He doesn't cry, because he doesn't feel like crying. He doesn't know what he's feeling at all.

**/-\**

"_I believe you."_

**/-\**

Santana doesn't know what she's doing.

The girl pulled her in with three words, once upon a time. Not the three words normal people think of – god forbid Berry ever _love_ her, like she'd ever _return_ it. Not like that. But _belief_ – that's something she craved. Faith. And Rachel had a hell of a lot more of it in her than anyone else did – didn't ask questions, make her defend herself. She just accepted it, as if it were that simple. As if she'd never hurt the girl to give her any doubt. And even then, Santana _kept_ hurting her.

_Hurt her like __**you**__ hurt so you're not the only one who feels the pain._

And so she'd hurt Rachel, because Santana was _wanted_, but she wasn't _loved_, and maybe if someone else couldn't be loved either then she wouldn't feel so alone. She'd felt terrible, sometimes – every time the slushy stained, or she'd seen the girl gritting her teeth, seen her fists clenching, seen those tears that never fell. Every time she'd just laid witness to Quinn doing it, because then there were two other girls with clenched teeth and self-hatred, one born from the other. Q was her best friend, after Brittany, but damn, her denial was like a freaking fatal disease.

And god, every time the girl winced, because then Rachel would look at her like she was either everything or nothing at all, and even though she liked that look – like she was amazing, like she was the entire world – just for one kindness, she _kept_ hurting her. Even though she wanted to feel it, she couldn't stop her spite.

Here was Rachel Berry, easy target, invincible. And Santana couldn't turn that down.

It was a risk – one risk she couldn't take. Brittany – she was safe. Brittany loved Santana, Santana loved Brittany, and it was that simple. They were best friends, constant. Anything else – touching, making out – it was great, but it was just extra. But Rachel Berry – she was something else (three words. _I._ _Believe. You_. No strings attached, but the one phrase that _attached_ _strings_. A hundred opportunities, a hundred fears). Friendship of a different kind. Challenging. Just as true, just as deep, but _different_. And Santana couldn't _have_ it, because she couldn't _lose_ it. It was much easier to poke fun, to hassle, to heckle, to hurt. There was no risk. Rachel wouldn't care. Rachel _didn't_ care.

Rachel _did_ care.

There is a hospital that proves it. And that's why Santana doesn't know what she's doing – because she's _at_ that hospital. She calmed Brittany down after Cheerios practice and then dropped her at Artie's, letting him in on the situation with a few small words and a heavy swallow of _nothing_. And Puck messaged her about drinking and pretending bad things never happened, and having a miniature pity-party that she was totally going to go to, but turned down. So now it's Friday night, and she's in a hospital, looking for the room of her teammate and her victim. She asks a nurse, who gives her this weird look before directing her to the right door and leaving her to it with nothing but a request to 'leave the restraints on'. Concern twists in her gut. It's unfamiliar. She doesn't like it being there.

She remembers sectionals last year – _I believe you_.

She remembers sectionals this year – _we all just pretend to like you._

They don't coincide. Kindness met with bitterness, and what was she even _thinking_? Spite, wasn't it? Anger? Loneliness? _Make her hurt like __**you**__ hurt_ – except now she just feels sick. _Eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind_, and Rachel was never invincible, and she was an idiot for ever thinking so. She still doesn't know what she's doing.

She opens the door before she can think about it, pauses at the light on the other side. It's dimmed in there, but the lights aren't out. She's a little amazed that they have that lighting feature in a general hospital. Except, then she remembers that this _isn't_ a general hospital, and the people here aren't diseased – they're broken.

Special. Like Rachel.

She makes herself step inside, eventually, even if she is afraid of what she'll find there – won't admit it, because she's Santana Lopez and she fears _nothing_. She closes the door behind her, like it will put a barrier between her and the real world. Like, maybe she can forget every bad thing she's ever done and pretend she's Rachel's friend – pretend she ever took that risk, pretend she's not a bad person. Maybe this room can be a different reality. Except then she sees the thick bandages on the arms of the girl on the bed, and realises that the world outside _sucks,_ but _this_ isn't a reality she wants either.

This isn't a reality _anyone_ wants.

She doesn't get a bright greeting – she's in a mental hospital, why the fuck is she expecting one? – and it throws her for a second, while she skulks at the edge of the room. So she stares a little longer at the body on the bed, surrounded by white walls and cleanliness and disinfectant. She hates this place already, and she hasn't even said anything yet.

"You're thinking too loudly. Shut up."

It's callous, and sudden in the quiet, and she jumps – won't admit it, she's too badass to jump at something. Her eyes flash, locked on that figure splayed out on the bed whose gaze hasn't moved from the ceiling. Her lips moved, though, with that voice. Familiar, but so different. Lifeless, kind of. Empty. Santana's never heard emptiness before today. It makes her gut clench and her spine quiver, and she finds her feet moving to the bedside without her telling them to. She hulks over the girl, looking into dull brown eyes that trade focus from the roof to her own.

"Come to gloat over my failure?" the girl asks dryly, but there's no fervour in it, no accusation, no passion. It's sickening, because this is _Rachel Berry_ – the girl on emotional _crack_ - who moves people with her _passion_ and her _feelings_ and her _drama_. And now she's just empty. "The one inevitable thing in life is death, but I fuck that up too."

Santana just stares down at her, more than a little perturbed. She doesn't have the unmistakable, though entirely unfamiliar, urge to cry anymore – not now that she knows Rachel's okay. She's got bandages on her wrists, and her arms are tied to the bed, and she's fucked in the head, but she's okay. Not _great_, but breathing. There's relief – sudden, tiring.

"No," Santana replies.

She doesn't know what else to say, really, so she takes the seat at the bedside and stares at the bonds on the bed – twisting around Rachel's wrists just lower than the bandages, tying her down - instead of speaking, and they're silent for a while. Rachel keeps her eyes on the roof, Santana on the leather. When the girl doesn't say anything, Santana pulls her math book out of her bag. She doesn't know why she's not leaving, doesn't know why she settles into the chair, doesn't know why she's even doing homework at all – _does_ know that it's a Friday night and she's visiting Rachel Berry in a hospital, though, so she resigns herself. If this is what she's doing, then so help her, this is what she'll do.

They sit in silence for a while – nothing but the sound of breathing and heartbeats, pen scrawling on paper, pages flipping. It's not uncomfortable, it's just unfamiliar. Weird. This place must be boring, Santana thinks eventually – nothing but a roof to stare at all day. She feels sorry for Rachel – not for the bandages on her wrists, surprisingly enough, nor for breaking – but for the fact that she's trapped here. Caged, like an animal, unable to do things for herself, to move without permission.

"You're my first visitor." It's dull and sudden, but Rachel doesn't say it fast. She lets it sink in, and Santana stares forlornly at the open page of her math book, suddenly realising why the nurse gave her such a weird look. "First. _You_. Not Kurt, not Noah. My Daddy's stuck over in a conference in Seattle. And my Dad can't even be in a room with me, let alone _look_ at me. And _you_ – you _hate_ me. But you're here." She lifts her eyes to see Rachel's still locked on the ceiling while she cocks her head to the side, as if it will make something jump out at her from the white surface. Santana doesn't deny it – hating Rachel Berry. There's no point. They _both_ know it's not true. "So, _why_ you are here? Only, then I lay here for a second and realise that I really don't _care_."

There is frustration underlying the emptiness, and Santana's gaze softens the tiniest amount when she hears it. She sighs a little, closing her book and putting it back in her bag.

"Yeah, you do," she tells the girl simply, and Rachel turns her head to look at the Latina with a frown and a furrowed brow, and Santana purses her lips and wishes this never happened – wishes she'd taken those three words once upon a time and taken that risk, because she thinks that then it _wouldn't_ have happened. They stare at each other for a comfortable moment before Rachel blinks, still looking frustrated – with Santana for being there, with herself for caring.

"Why then?" she asks simply, and Santana shrugs.

"I don't know," she says, and it's honest, and it's evident, and Rachel just frowns at her because she knows it's the truth. "I think I _need_ to be here."

It's not hard to talk to Rachel without insulting her, even though Santana always told herself it would be. It's actually really easy. Comfortable. Familiar, even. A little weird. And they stare at each other for a while, until Rachel looks decidedly _un_comfortable – some need caught in her mouth that she doesn't want to let out, but her hand twists in its restraint and Santana _somehow_ understands.

She stands up from her chair and moves to the bedside, unbuckles the strap on the girl's wrist (fuck that nurse, Santana is too badass for pansy rules anyway), and crawls onto the bed beside her. Rachel doesn't say anything, just turns on her side – must be a relief after being on her back so long – and moves over on the bed. It should be unnerving how familiar it is to curl up behind the girl and splay out an arm around her waist, but Santana doesn't really care about that. It's comfortable – nice, even – and it feels like the right thing to do, even if this is her sworn enemy and her greatest failure.

And it's not at all romantic, either, (thank god, because Quinn would rip her a new one if she ever found out, and one thing Santana does _not_ do is grass-cutting) which is weird for Santana, but it's comforting for the bandaged girl without making her feel fragile, even if she does start crying (with her back to Santana and the girl's arms around her, and this is weird but working). And it's comforting for Santana, who thought she'd lost her chance at being a good person until she saw the girl, touched her, set her free.

"I always thought you were unbreakable, Rach," she whispers, and she's not sure if the answering shudder is a laugh or a sob, or a combination between the two, but she feels their fingers intertwine and feels like a good friend, for once, to someone who she should have befriended ages ago.

"Yeah," Rachel breathes out, even as Santana's fingers brush against those thick white bandages on her arms – marks of _just_ how _breakable_ she is. "That's me. Invincible. Unbeatable. And wordy. I'm a _right_ warrior poet." Santana smiles the tiniest bit, even though she doesn't know who Rachel's convincing.

"I believe you."

It feels great dropping from her lips – natural, affectionate, easy. She shifts a little closer, and tightens her arm, pulls Rachel back into her just a little bit more until they're stuffed comfortably together on the hospital bed, in the bland, sanitary room that doesn't seem real, and it doesn't feel like the girl could slip away at any given moment.

She feels warm, for some reason – and it's not body heat because it's inside, and it's weird but she likes it. God forbid she ever admit that, though. Totally not badass. And, underneath it all, maybe the fleeting thought that, maybe – just maybe – everything will be okay.

And maybe she believes that, too.

* * *

><p><em>Feedback is muchos appreciato.<em>


End file.
